


Bad Outcome

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, hinted Johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always running ahead was dangerous as John was the one with the gun. But what do you when the worst happens?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Outcome

It was a bad outcome, the worst that could possibly happen. The circumstances surrounding it were nothing unusual, nothing they hadn’t done time and time again. The day had started off like usual, tea with breakfast and a case coming in through an email. And yet, that case would change everything. One little chunk of metal came to end the complacently that had lain like a blanket over the danger and the thrill. They hadn’t gotten hurt yet, right? So they never would. Of course, life changes everything when you least expect it.

“Hurry, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, darting around a corner after the man they were chasing. “He’s getting away!”

“I am hurrying, you git,” John grumbled, pushing for more speed. “Just because I don’t have bloody long legs like a gazelle doesn’t mean I can’t hurry.”

John turned the corner about 10 seconds after Sherlock, puffing hard as he tried to keep up. Then, a crack sounded throughout the alley turning John’s blood cold. He knew that sound, had heard it far too often when he was in the army. That crack meant someone’s life was bleeding out on the sand, or the pavement in this case. And then John remembered _he_ had his gun and he couldn’t hear Sherlock anymore. John scrambled over a fence across the mouth of the alley and stopped, mouth dropping open in shock. Sherlock was lying on the sidewalk, blood oozing from a gunshot on his side. 

“No, no, no,” John moaned, hurrying to Sherlock’s side and dropping to his knees. He checked Sherlock’s pulse and was relieved when it pressed against his finger. It was weak but there. John shrugged out of his coat quickly and used it to try and staunch the wound. Without looking further, which would put Sherlock in danger of bleeding out, John couldn’t tell how bad the wound was. By this point, someone had called an ambulance and a small crowd was gathering around them.

“I’m a doctor, I’ve got it,” John snapped when one man leaned down to help. He didn’t want anyone else touching Sherlock right now. There was no sign of the man they’d been chasing but Sherlock had been fairly certain he wasn’t working alone. Any of these people here could be his partner. Sirens started in the distance and rapidly grew nearer. The crowd shifted just enough when the sirens stopped near so the paramedics could make it to Sherlock with a stretcher. John found himself gently but implacably pushed away, one man taking over holding the compress while the other set up an IV for Sherlock and worked to stabilize him. All John could do was sit there watching, blood coating his hands and soaking into his jeans.

While the paramedics worked, they asked John questions trying to keep the man focused. They needed the information, true, but they could also see the symptoms of shock and wanted to keep John aware. Finally, Sherlock was placed on the stretcher and taken into the ambulance. John followed woodenly, stumbling as he walked to the ambulance. He needed help getting in, his hands slipping on the metal handle due to the blood still coating them. The man who stayed in the back with Sherlock and John kept shooting John sympathetic looks while monitoring Sherlock. This shock and disbelief was something he’d seen all too often and it never got any easier.

Once they got to the hospital, John had regained enough of himself to stand quietly while the paramedics wheeled Sherlock into the emergency room and the doctors took him away. Gunshots in the stomach were nasty things and John prayed hard that the bullet hadn’t struck anything vital. Knowing that Sherlock was likely to be in surgery for a while, even if the bullet had hit nothing, John walked aimlessly through the halls looking for a waiting room. He got another shock when he lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair and the reddish-brown of dried blood caught his eyes. Sherlock’s blood was still on his hands and John needed to get rid of it. Seeing a sign for the bathroom, John ducked inside and ran hot water in the sink. Blurry red water swirled around the sink and ran down the drain as John scrubbed furiously at his hands. Some part of him hoped that when he was clean, that when he had washed away all the evidence of what happened, Sherlock would be okay. Sherlock would be standing outside the bathroom and give John that small smile and call him an idiot. 

But when John finally dried his clean hands and stepped outside, no one waited there. Sherlock was still in surgery, possibly dying, and John could do nothing. A small voice in his head reminded him of how serious the paramedic had looked and how the man had avoided the few questions John had mumbled. Even the doctors had had a certain grim cast to their features that John recognized. Walking slowly, John made his way to a waiting room and sank heavily into a chair. Putting his head into his hands blocked out the reality of where he was and John let himself drift, unthinking. It was better than knowing he could have stopped this had he been just a little faster.

Some time later, John looked up to find Mycroft sitting next to him. The elder Holmes had his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap while he watched John with sympathy on his face. John was getting really sick of that expression. When Mycroft met John’s eyes, he nodded once sharply and pulled out a cellphone. They sat in silence until a haggard-looking doctor came into the waiting room and said, “Holmes?”

“Yes, here,” John said quickly, standing up and heading to the doctor. Mycroft followed more slowly, worry crossing his face before he could smooth it away. “Is Sherlock okay?”

“He came out of surgery all right,” the doctor, whose nametag read Dr. A. Johnson, replied, hedging a bit. “The bullet missed his vital organs but did damage his large intestine. We repaired the damage and moved him to a recovery room.”

“Good, that’s good,” John said, heaving a sigh of relief. “When can I see Sherlock? Is he awake yet?”

“That would be the problem,” Dr. Johnson said, shaking his head as Mycroft stepped up beside John. “Mr. Holmes appears to be in a coma. It looks like a blood clot travelled to his brain. We won’t know what damage it caused until he wakes up. But you have to be prepared that he may not wake up at all. These first forty-eight hours will be the most critical.”

“So if he doesn’t wake up in the next two days, he most likely won’t,” John said flatly, all relief flooding from his face. He glanced at Mycroft and saw the same worry on the elder Holmes’ face he was feeling. That was bad; if John could read emotion that clearly in Mycroft, then Mycroft must be about to lose his mind with the emotion. “When can we see him?”

“I want to give it about an hour,” Dr. Johnson replied, casting John and Mycroft the sympathetic look John was starting to detest. “Then you’ll be able to go back and see him. Once visitor at a time, though, until Mr. Holmes is moved into a permanent room.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Mycroft said smoothly, though quietly, speaking for the first time since he arrived. Dr. Johnson nodded and walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets. This was one of the hardest things to do, only surpassed by telling the loved ones the patient didn’t make it. It never got easier. Mycroft and John sat back down to wait, both men sitting with an almost deadly stillness. They each had travelled their own battlefields and knew how to wait no matter how grating. Once the hour was up, John let Mycroft in first to see Sherlock. The man was family, after all, even if both Holmes’ argued more than they did anything else. John fidgeted quietly outside the room, checking his watch over and over again while Mycroft was in the room. He tried to prepare himself for seeing Sherlock, for seeing his best friend still and silent in a hospital bed. Yet when John’s turn came, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted his eyes. Sherlock was always so alive, so vibrant, nearly vibrating with the need to move. This Sherlock was even paler than normal and curiously small, tucked into white hospital blankets. His arms rested at his sides and John walked forward to take one of Sherlock hands in his. It was cold though John could still feel Sherlock’s pulse. It beat stronger against his fingers than last time and convinced John that Sherlock really was alive.

The next few days passed slowly for John. Sherlock never stirred, his breathing even and calm. As hours crept by, John’s hope slowly dwindled. He knew the odds for coma patients. When he was alone in Sherlock’s room, John took to talking to the detective. Stories of his time in the military, reminiscing about previous cases, pleas for Sherlock to wake up littered the air as John spoke with increasing desperation. The forty-eight hour mark passed with no difference in Sherlock’s condition. The doctors and nurses started using phrases like hospice care, maintaining, and coming to terms. John knew it all, had used them himself, and each repetition seemed to burn across his skin. Finally unable to stand it anymore, John chased everyone from the room when they started speaking. The nurses learned to do their work silently and cast several suspicious looks at John while they did.

About a week later, when it was obvious that Sherlock wasn’t going to wake up just yet and his wound had mostly healed, John was able to take Sherlock back to 221B. Getting the stretcher up the stairs was interesting but John and another nurse managed it. The nurse was a tall, burly man and held up his end of the stretcher almost effortlessly. They settled Sherlock into his bed and John thanked the nurse and saw him out. It was surreal to be back in the flat with Sherlock and have it be so silent. John was used to experiments on the kitchen table and Sherlock pacing through the flat or playing his violin. Turning the telly on helps a little bit but there is still a Sherlock-sized hole in the flat. John distracts himself by rereading the information about how to care for Sherlock in his comatose state and what the nurse Mycroft hired to help would be doing. Telling himself Sherlock wouldn’t be this way for too much longer was the only way for John to keep the despair from eating him alive. Even if he knew it was most likely a lie.

Six months later John had settled into a routine. A rather dull and boring one, but a routine nonetheless. He woke in the morning and took a shower. After getting dressed, John would check on Sherlock and make sure the IV was still in place. Then, he would eat his own breakfast and wave silently to the nurse as she let herself into the flat. By this time, John had given her a key and told her the place was hers to come and go. Now that he had the time to work at the clinic, John’s quiet skill shined and he was getting more and more hours. He wasn’t always there to let her in and, after one day where Sherlock had been left alone, John decided letting the nurse have the run of the place was the best idea. Then he’d head off to work and slog through the normal complaints of a populace in a small area. Plenty of flus and colds, some broken bones, even a few pregnancies here and there. Once he was done at the clinic, John would come home and make dinner. Usually, he just bought takeout on the way back. He and the nurse would share it, the telly filling the silence, until it came time for her to leave. Then John would spend the few hours before collapsing into his bed reading and talking to Sherlock.

Six months to the day of Sherlock’s shooting, John was sitting in the chair he’d dragged into Sherlock’s room. A battered copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea rested on John’s thighs as he read from the book. It had followed him from the bookshelf he’d put up in his room in high school to Afghanistan and now back here to 221B. That book had kept him sane when the world went crazy around him in the desert, kept him dreaming and wishing when the fighting and the death ground him to bits. He was reading one of the parts where Verne listed all the different sorts of fish and crustaceans the indomitable Captain Nemo served for meals when a slight movement caught his eye. Sherlock’s hand was twitching, the fingers tapping at the bed underneath. John caught his breath, the book dropping from suddenly nerveless hands. Could this be the sign that he’d been waiting for, the proof that Sherlock would wake eventually?

Those long, pale fingers continued to twitch for a few more minutes, controlling John’s attention completely. Every once in a while, worried and hopeful eyes would flick up to Sherlock’s face for a quick study then focus back on the fingers. They stopped and John watched for anymore signs. When they didn’t come, he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Six months was a long time for someone in a coma. Granted, others had come out of longer ones but it was rare. He knew he should probably stop hoping as hard as he did but there was no way John could give up on Sherlock. Not after the miracles he’d seen the man perform. Picking up the book, John started reading again fitfully, glancing up every few words to check on Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please, I need you to come back,” John whispered as he came to the end of a chapter. “I know it was my fault. I should have been faster. But you need to wake up now.”

Again, there was no response. Sherlock merely continued to breathe slowly, face calm and almost ethereal. He’d grown even paler but had kept a decent muscle tone. John and the nurse both exercised Sherlock’s muscles, though the nurse had assumed a more and more resigned air. John started reading again, a smile tugging at his lips as he read about Captain Nemo showing off Atlantis. 

“Doesn’t exist,” Sherlock’s voice whispered, cutting through John’s words. “No Atlantis.”

“Sherlock?” John exclaimed, dropping the book again as he jumped up out of his chair. He checked Sherlock’s eyes, now open to show the quicksilver blue, and his pulse. Sherlock moved slowly, stretching his arms slightly out to the sides. It was the extent of what he could do after six months of inactivity. “How do you feel? What do you remember?”

“Well, I remember that Jules Verne, while excellent with technological innovations, often took flights of fancy that could have been avoided,” Sherlock replied dryly, coughing about halfway through his sentence. His voice was hoarse and ragged. “Can I... have a drink? My throat’s so dry.”

John held his own cup of water, still half-full, up to Sherlock’s lips and helped the detective drink. Once his thirst was slaked, Sherlock looked around the room and studied John carefully. The signs of worry were all there in John’s sunken eyes, lined face, and leaner frame. John sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and threw his arms around Sherlock, hugging him.

“I’m sorry for this but I can’t believe you woke up,” John whispered against Sherlock’s neck, feeling the need to apologize for the touch. “It’s been a long time, Sherlock.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, patting John’s shoulder awkwardly. He had to admit, the hug was interesting but it was nothing Sherlock was used to. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. “I remember running after the murderer and then a burning pain in my side.”

“You were shot,” John explained, sitting back but letting a hand rest on Sherlock’s forearm. It was more than he’d done before the shooting but John needed to remind himself that Sherlock was _there_ now. Sherlock was back. “The surgery went well but you threw a clot. It travelled to your brain and put you in a coma. It’s been six months.”

“That would explain the weakness,” Sherlock remarked, staring down at his body in consternation. Being unable to control his limbs or even move without puffing was frustrating. “I hope I get past this quickly. I hate being stuck in a bed.”

“We’ll work on it, Sherlock,” John promised, nodding decisively. “We need to go carefully so we don’t hurt you more. It’ll take time, and we need to see if the clot did anymore damage, but you’ll get there, Sherlock.”

After talking for about another half hour, Sherlock fell asleep again. It was odd that he was so tired after spending so long in an unconscious state but a coma really isn’t sleep. John sat in his chair, watching Sherlock with a blinding smile until yawns sent him to his own bed. But a corner had been turned and John felt himself relax fully for the first time in six months. From a bad outcome to the most wondrous of miracles. The flat finally didn’t feel so empty, the Sherlock-sized hole filled again. John fell asleep, full of hope and still smiling.


End file.
